


a Study in Red

by Ladelle



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Crime Fighting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, Tutoring, also tim is super super smart, and pretty badass, and very unaware of his FEELINGS, homework and crimefighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladelle/pseuds/Ladelle
Summary: Unbeknownst to Tim, Jason falls unexpectedly hard for a college kid that lives off brie.orThe slow-build Stolen Kisses prompt wherein Jason needs a tutor and Tim miraculously finds the time to pencil him in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, part of me is embarrassed to admit that this was first intended for February's JayTim week - but it got out of hand! One chapter turned to two, then I wrote another...eventually I was 25K words deep and it just made more sense to wait until I had 80% of it written until I posted anything. 
> 
> So...ta-dah! Here is is! Finally! hahaha
> 
> Big shout out to Tanekore, my art buddy, for your everlasting patience. You've held onto your amazing art for this for a lifetime (insert 'it's been 84 years' gif) and you have also been the best creative buddy EVEEEER. This story would not have been so fun without your running commentary or or 2am dialogue sessions, lmao!

“What’s the _what?_ ” Tim asked, propping his phone between his shoulder and chin. The class was packed and he struggled squeezing behind other students to get to an empty seat.

_“If I’m on a building that’s thirty feet tall and the width of the street below is twenty feet wide–”_

“What?” Tim interrupted again, just before bumping into a girl by accident. The hall was pure chaos, and Tim barely had a chance to offer her an apologetic smile before scrambling to claim an empty chair a few feet away. “Where are you?” he asked against the cool screen of his smartphone. “I mean – thirty feet tall? In _Gotham_?”

_“Tim, ix-nay on the erd-nay – it’s a simple question. If the building is thirty feet tall–”_

“Uh,” Tim interrupted, rifling through his pack in an effort to find his pencil bag. “I hate to break it to you, but _no_ building in Gotham is thirty feet tall,” he countered, his voice nearly lost to the dull roar of the lecture hall – the place was a boisterous haze of mid-semester dread. “It’s an architectural thing. Each floor does have, like, a ten foot standard but you’ve got to calculate the interstitial space, and—”

“ _Tim,”_ Jason said, half-serious. _“Timbo-yo-himbo. Timbo-Slice_ . _You’re making this way too complicated.”_

Four shots of espresso told Tim otherwise. “But it’s not?” he offered, distracted as he thumbed through folders in an effort to find his textbook. “I’m just saying that it’s like, architecturally impossible. You’d have to–”

 _“Oi, bird boy.”_ Jason interrupted, and Tim went quiet – but more because the door to the hall made a familiar creaking noise and as his eyes lifted, he caught sight of his professor.

_Crap._

A quick glance at the white industrial clock on the wall told Tim that his midterm was less than a few minutes from starting and his heart galloped; he hoped he’d gotten enough study time in to keep his GPA from dipping below its 4.0 precipice.

“— _get through the question,”_ Jason was saying, and Tim felt his nerves rattle when he realized he hadn’t even noticed Jason had kept on. _“So, Timbo, for_ whatever _reason, the building is thirty feet tall. And the street below is twenty feet wide. So how would –_ ”

Tim frowned. “Okay, wait,” he stated, shaking his head in confusion. “You know the average two-lane street is thirty feet wide, right?”

“ _TIM.”_

“ _Jason,”_ Tim hissed back. The professor waved his hands, urging the class to silence. “I’ve got a test in T minus thirty seconds and I _have no idea_ _what you want from me.”_

From the other end of the line, Jason made a noise; it was the same sound Jason typically made before throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

“ _Bah!_ ” Jason snapped. “ _Nevermind.”_

The call dropped.

Tim shook his head.

The cacophony of panic in the lecture hall had dimmed, but he couldn’t help but notice the blonde girl sitting next to him was looking his way, one eyebrow raised.

“How would _you_ know whether or not Gotham has a thirty foot tall building?”

Tim laughed and left it at that.

After all, he wasn’t about to tell her he’d been atop every one.

***

It was two days later when Tim received another call, only this time, he was making an intent and desperate jog up from the subway tunnel.

“Hello?” he answered breathily, convinced it was Bruce. After all, he _was_ running late, and the account executives weren’t going to be able to start the meeting without his numbers.

 _“This a bad time?”_ Jason asked, but he barely gave Tim the opportunity to answer before he added, _“I just wanted to know how to get salt out of water.”_

It was a warm day; heat swelled in pockets around the city, the humidity making Tim’s skin feel damp. His backpack was heavy – he’d come straight from class – and his tie fell like a limp snake over either of his shoulders. He hadn’t found time to craft it into a knot.

“Salt out of water?” Tim questioned, taking a quick glance at his watch. When he looked back up, he weighed whether or not he’d save time by using the crosswalk farther up, near the business center plaza.

_“Yeah. The easiest way.”_

Moving briskly, Tim answered, “Just pour yourself a new glass, Jay. What are you making?”

It was no secret that Jason liked to cook, and Tim wondered what it would feel like to have even _an hour_ of free time to romance his stove. He was pretty sure, by this point, it had collected a few months worth of dust.

 _“No, no,”_ Jason countered. “ _Just, in general – how do you get salt out of water?”_

Weaving through a tight throng of people lining up outside a rolling ice cream cart, Tim bit his lip and tossed a glance skyward. “Like, to survive? If you’re stranded on an island, or something?”

This time, Jason groaned. _“This isn’t_ Lost _, Timbo. I’ve just got a cup of water. The water has salt in it. How do I get the salt out?_ Without _pouring a new glass,”_ he added for measure.

Tim had to rush to join the street-crossing crowd and took broad steps to keep up with the pedestrian flow. From between buildings, the sun finally caught him; it left him feeling half-baked and dry-mouthed from running.

“Boil it?” Tim tried. “Like, to evaporate the water?”

There was a slight pause before Jason said, _“You’re a genius. I wasn’t sure if it was that, or – you know, nevermind. Thanks!”_

The call dropped, and Tim lowered his phone, staring at the screen as it faded to black.

Tim thoughts didn’t linger too long; Tiffany Fox, his ever-present secretary, was waiting for him in the courtyard with a pile of dockets in-hand. She had a water bottle too, and a pinched expression that said _I’m sorry._

He wondered if he looked as exhausted as he felt. _Unlikely,_ he thought.

After all, he was working off of four shots of espresso.

***

Three days passed with relatively no contact, at least until Tim was artfully rappelling from building to building just a bit past midnight. He was lightheaded from running off minimal food intake, debating whether or not it was worth drifting into Damian’s territory just to pilfer a protein bar.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

It caught Tim off guard when the line  in his ear went crackly, barely welcoming a low but distinct voice.

_“You up?”_

Tim decided that to be an overstatement.

 _“_ Why? Can’t sleep?” he replied easily, landing with practiced precision on a rooftop ledge. It was a conglomerate tower, one that had a view of the city that was startlingly attractive. The dimmed flicker of traffic looked a bit like stars mulling on rivers of shadow, and above, the moon seemed only a hairsbreadth away.

 _“You got me,_ ” Jason sighed, wistful. _“Sometimes I lie awake and think,_ _I wonder what Tim is doing right now. Are we looking at the same stars?”_

Tim scraped his boot across cement, drawing a line in the dirt that had collected there. It was only on nights like tonight, in the stillness of everything, that he remembered Jason’s favorite pastime was flirting.

“I’m watching an SUV make an illegal U turn,” he replied. It was also on nights like tonight, in the stillness of everything, with only Jason’s voice in his ear, that he had to remind himself not to fall for it.

Jason hummed. _“Better get on that,”_ he said. _“First it’s illegal U-eys, then it’s dark alley exchanges.”_

Chewing the edge of his lip, Tim said, “I had no idea minor traffic violations were the gateway drug to organized crime.”

_“Nothing feels better than the rush of running a red light, Tim.”_

It was impossible not to huff a laugh, though Tim blamed it on his creeping exhaustion. He offered, “Except sleep, maybe,” just before throwing a palm to his mouth, half-stifling a yawn. “And apparently illegal U turns.”

A small bridge of silence settled between them, though Tim heard Jason clicking his tongue – a habit Tim recognized from the occasional case they’d taken together. He wasn’t sure Jason was aware of it.

 _“How much longer are you going to be out?”_ Jason asked, pulling Tim from his wandering thoughts once again; Tim was hesitant to admit he’d been wondering the same thing.

Damian was on patrol – Tim knew that for sure; they’d overlapped routes enough times over the past few weeks for Tim to piece together the teen’s schedule. Common sense told him that Bruce was handling the west end, simply because he had a corporate brunch in the morning.

With another yawn, Tim remembered that he was supposed to be attending as well. “Why?” he questioned with a sigh. “Do you need something?”

Jason clicked a familiar beat with his tongue before saying, offhandedly, _“A bedtime story.”_

“Okay?” Tim replied, half amused and half convinced that Jason must be as tired as himself. Below, the sound of thinned-out traffic hummed; a siren sang in the distance, but Tim merely licked his lips.

“Once upon a time,” he started, “the Red Hood believed Gotham had a building that stood _thirty feet_ tall. Unbeknownst to him, it—”

 _“Oi—”_ Jason interjected, pointedly, but Tim simply raised his voice, intent to continue, trying not to let humor bubble into his words.

“— _impossible_ for buildings to be that tall,” he stated, matter-of-fact, “especially in metropolitan areas, and –”

 _“Hey, Mr. No-Help-At-All,”_ Jason spoke loudly enough that Tim’s words were driven to a short run of sweeping laughter. Jason added, _“It’s not my fault you take the simplest questions and turn them into rocket science.”_

Clearing his throat, Tim raised an eyebrow – he still had no idea what Jason was getting at. He was about to ask when Jason’s voice crept over the comms.

_“How did your test go?”_

Tim blinked, caught off guard by the change of subject. “My what?”

_“When I called, you said you had a test.”_

“Oh,” Tim said, thinking back to the midterm. It already felt like a month had passed since. “Good.” He didn’t add _by some miracle_ because he didn’t really want to get into how go-go-go he was these days, and how half the time, he felt like he was winging it.

“ _Hm,”_ Jason hummed. “ _Is college hard?”_

Over their shared channel, Tim heard the faint sound of an ambulance – one of the privately owned ones that typically stationed themselves near the harbor. It caused Tim to tip his head sideways, drawn in that direction.

 _He’s patrolling the docks?_ Tim wondered.

“Depends on the content, I guess,” he thought aloud. “Also the professor. Though most of the time I end up figuring it out for myself. Attendance is probably going to be my downfall.”

It was only half-true. Mostly, he’d been able to skate by using Wayne Enterprises as an excuse. Most professors were delighted to let him skip a class here and there due to corporate obligation – though, a majority of the time, even though he’d given the old Wayne heir song-and-dance, his absence was related to stitches he couldn’t risk pulling in public.

_“B keeping you busy?”_

_As if there was ever any question_ , Tim wanted to say, but instead he found himself reaching for his grappling gun, feeling fidgety, wanting something to do.

“ _I’m_ keeping me busy,” he replied, taking a quick breath before he rappelled to another building, and to another, and to a third, where he landed with a smooth jog onto a rooftop peppered with plants carefully situated to abide by the rules of feng shuey.

“ _Your integrity is awe-inspiring_ ,” Jason commented, sounding a bit distracted before he asked, _“Hey, how do you figure out percentages without a calculator?”_

Tim made his way through a maze of bonsai trees, pausing at the opposite edge of the rooftop. Surprised for the second time, he raised an eyebrow. “What?”

 _“Percentages,”_ Jason repeated. _“Without a calculator.”_

The question lingered, and Tim frowned as he stepped up and onto the ledge, peering out and to the east, his eyes taking him past city limits for just a moment. Beyond was a formidable spill of black eternity; the ocean, ink-colored in the pitch black of night.

He hummed in thought, before asking, offhandedly, “What are you trying to figure out?”

 _“No, no,”_ Jason huffed. _“I don’t want_ you _to figure it out._ I _want to figure it out.”_

Tim was running his own calculations as Jason spoke, systematically narrowing down where Jason could be. There were twenty lookout points on that side of town, but only four were near ambulance checkpoints – where they waited until dispatched for a call.

“Is this like, a Deadshot thing?” he questioned, still stuck on Jason’s random interrogation regarding building height and street width. “I know you were kind of impressed by that security vid B intercepted, and I mean – I _really_ think, I mean, _he_ may be able to calculate trajectories off building height and, you know, _percentage stats_ but, I mean, I don’t even think _I_ could do that on the fly.”

 _“How do you even do that,”_ Jason seemed to wonder aloud.

“Do what?” Tim asked, just before taking a deep breath and moving a few buildings closer to the pier, letting out a huff when he landed and was forced to shake out his wrist.

 _“Travel so far left field, that I can’t even—“_ Jason cut himself off with a sound of feigned exasperation, and said, _“Can’t a guy just want to do math in his head?”_

Rung by rung, Tim made a quick climb to the top of a closed-factory smoke-tower, pleased to see a familiar shadow seated on the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse next door.

“I wasn’t aware you couldn’t,” he answered honestly.

 _“Percentages_ ,” Jason felt the need to clarify, and Tim released a long sigh before saying, “Fancy meeting you here.”

 _“What?”_ Jason asked, and Tim waited, happily perched, watching as Jason tipped his head back and turned just far enough for Tim to fall within his range of vision.

_“Oi, I thought we had this conversation. This here is Hood’s part of town.”_

Tim ignored the empty threat and rode a line to the warehouse roof, holding his arm high as he retracted his cable. Jason hadn’t bothered standing – in fact, and oddly, he wasn’t even _Red Hood_ at the moment – he was Jason Todd, seated with his legs dangling lazily off the rooftop’s ledge.

“Wow,” Tim said, turning off their channel while wandering forward. “ _You’re_ living life on the edge.”

“Ha ha,” Jason tipped his head back, just far enough so that Tim could see him roll his eyes. It also opened up a clear view of his lap, which was full of a wrinkled, scribbled-in book.

“You’re reading?” he asked, watching as Jason tugged a cord dangling at his chest, effectively pulling a bud from his right ear.

Matter-of-factly, he looked Tim in the eye and said, “I’m studying.”

Tim’s lips pressed together and his eyes darted from Jason’s expression to the tattered book beneath his hands, and he said, “Did _a book_ tell you that there’s a building in Gotham that’s thirty feet tall? Because –“

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Jason’s words came paired with an expression that made it seem liked he was being murdered, slowly. “Let it _go_.”

Tim laughed and closed the gap between them, pure interest driving him to take a seat next to Jason. He sat sideways, cross-legged, and peeled his mask back from his face.

“What are you studying?” he asked, genuinely curious. Leaning in, he eyed the content of the book – recognizing questions about percentages while also spotting long lines of penciled-in notes filling up the side margins of the page.

“Things,” Jason said, sounding torn between defeat and secrecy. Tim lifted his gaze, not expecting to find Jason staring stubbornly in the opposite direction.

“Um…” Tim started, feeling a bit like he’d wandered into something he wasn’t supposed to see. “Are you getting a certification?”

What Jason would need a certification for, Tim had no idea. Maybe he was trying to get a gun license.

At the thought, Tim puffed an unexpected laugh.

“This is why I don’t invite you to parties, Timbo.”

Tim sat back, suddenly aware of their isolation, of the lone weather vane lamp above them that spattered them with damp, flickering light.

He whispered, “Is this a party?”

Jason frowned and sat back, his leather jacket slipping sideways, revealing a smooth spread of black underarmor. “You: Is this a party? Me: an intellectual...” Jason said, then holding up his book, motioning to it – the movement causing it to flop closed, revealing its nature.

**_GED Prep: Smart Guide to Success_ **

Tim’s thoughts stumbled. He wasn’t sure what to react to first. He said, “Did you just _meme_ me?”

Jason rolled his eyes and threw a glance heavenward. “ _That’s_ what you’re stuck on?”

Wide-eyed, Tim nodded intently before shifting to pull his phone from his back pocket. “June 12th,” he said, much in the tone of _dear diary_. “Jason surprises the world with his knowledge of meme vernacular—“

“I surprised _you_ ,” Jason attempted to correct. “And who uses the word _vernacular_?”

Holding up a finger, Tim looked upward, catching Jason’s eyes with his own. A bit studiously, he listed, “Lingo, knowledge, _patois—“_

“If you were a dinosaur, you’d be a thesaurus.” Jason interrupted, tone completely flat.

“That was terrible,” Tim said, laughing.

“Hey, hey. I have two loaded pistols on me,” Jason stated, puffing his chest, doing that faux-threatening thing he liked to do that always brought Tim’s quick wit to the surface.

“And here I thought you were just happy to see me.”

With most flirtations that Jason seemed to drag from the depths of Tim’s socially awkward soul, the words came paired with immediate, heart-pounding regret and a creeping flush that he was sure could be seen by the League’s space station.

Jason seemed unphased – he simply huffed out a sigh and stared off into the distance. “At least I have my good looks.”

It took Tim a moment to connect the dots, his eyes darting to the prep workbook.

“Jason,” he said, very seriously. “You are _really_ smart.”

“How would you know?” Jason asked, distantly.

Tim didn’t want to admit that Dick had told him, and that Alfred had confirmed. Jason had genius-like intellect mixed with the more common problem of a lack of motivation.

Ever the detective, Tim put two and two together once more.

“You never got a chance to get your diploma,” he solved on his own, putting together a mental timeline. It seemed like such a moot thing. “It’s just a piece of paper, Jay.”

The light struck Jason in an introspective way, lending shadow to the sharp angles of his jaw, darkening his eyes. “Easy to say when you’ve got one,” he replied.

Tim opened his mouth to argue, but decided to take a moment to think on it. He supposed Jason was right; it wasn’t fair to have an opinion when he not only had a diploma, but was nearly finished with college.

“This last month makes so much more sense,” he ended up saying instead, thinking back to Jason’s random phone calls, to his odd questions. He leaned backwards, pressing his palms to the cooled ledge pavement, and took a breath. “Okay,” he said, breaking the small silence that had settled between them. “It’s not that I mind your calls, but I am so _everywhere_ that I just don’t think it’s practical. I can totally help you study, but it’s going to have to be on my schedule.”

Jason raised a brow at Tim, not having expected the offer.

“How long do we have?” Tim asked, lips parted in question.

Jason’s gaze danced to the book and he bled a defeated sigh. “Two weeks.”

Tim blinked.

“And I’m busy too, you know,” Jason threw back. “Why do you think we don’t have any thugs to chase down tonight?” he motioned towards the serene scene that surrounded them.

Tim couldn’t argue that, and so he said, “I’ll be home tomorrow night and the next between midnight and 4am,” he said. “Just text me before you head over. Now, you’re working on percentages tonight?” he asked, and Jason nodded quickly, picking up the workbook before flipping through to where he’d left off.

“I just don’t quite get how they got here…” he said, running his finger across the page.

Tim nodded, tossing a quick glance to Jason’s gaze before settling his attention on the problem.

“No problem. This one might actually be kind of easy. Let me teach you a trick,” he said.

A lone siren sounded in the distance, and water from the pier gently sloshed not too far from where they were. Time slipped by, unnoticed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next two days were indistinct blurs.

Tim half-remembered the corporate brunch, from which Bruce had made him promise to take leftovers home. He’d nearly missed the subway stop for college and had stumbled in late to an afternoon lab; he hadn’t trusted himself to do anything that took too much precision, and his partners had gladly agreed to mix chemicals in his stead.

Dinner consisted of coffee and the college café’s last bagel, and Dick had dropped by to give Tim a lift to Wayne Manor, where a _Family Meeting_ ™ told them to stop running into each other on patrol; and, in a direct attack to the dark circles under Tim’s eyes and his very loud and grousing stomach, Damian had dropped a box of protein bars into his lap.

“Charitable giving,” he’d said with a scoff.

Tim had countered with, “One day you’ll be old enough to file it on a tax return.”

Afterwards, Dick had given him a ride home and in a very serious, very Nightwing tone had told him, “No patrol tonight, got it?”

Tim itched at the idea that he’d been given an order and rebelled by spending four hours catching up on school assignments. Like most nights he dedicated to homework, he ended up asleep at his coffee table, the alarm on his phone eventually beeping him into a panic-stricken awareness; and, as usual, he awoke with a sheet of loose-leaf paper clinging to his cheek.

Classes the next day were a blur, and all Tim really noticed was that he hadn’t heard from Jason. Partly, he wondered if Jason had decided to wing the exam on his own, and Tim couldn’t help but feel disappointed; it was odd, but Jason was a mystery to him, and Tim, more than anything, enjoyed puzzles.

For the second night in a row, he received a message telling him to stay home; he’d stumbled through a two hour intern tour at Wayne Manor with a jittery sense of excitement that only compounded espresso shots could inspire, and he supposed that someone _somewhere_ in the building had passed the message upward.

On some levels, he supposed it made sense that Timothy Drake-Wayne, heir to a corporate empire, shouldn’t look like the living dead – but since when did _anyone_ in college look like they were thriving _?_

Since he had plenty to work on, Tim simply formed a line of energy drinks and worked his way through, staying wide-eyed through the midnight hours reading chapter after chapter about the repercussions of economic downturn. The time finally arrived when his eyes simply couldn’t stay open; he barely managed to push himself up from the table and stumble into his bedroom, where he collapsed onto a bed that was half-blankets, half-laundry.

Sometime later, in a very hazy dream, he imagined his bedroom window opening to let huge kernels of corn through; with sharp, popping sounds they exploded to form popcorn – so loud that he found himself shooting awake, heart pounding when he caught a shadow dancing idly on the floor beyond the foot of his bed.

“What the hell –” the person said, and it took a good span of seconds for Tim to wake up enough to pair the voice with Jason – and to realize that he’d come in through the window and effectively landed on spare bubble wrap that Tim had attempted to wedge in the corner. “You’re fucking Red Robin and your security is _packing material_?”

Tim flopped back down onto his bed and felt around until he found a bundle of socks and tossed them half-heartedly in Jason’s direction. “Red Hood,” he stated, his voice groggy and deep. “Caught breaking and entering, stepping on bubble wrap.”

Jason tripped, falling halfway onto the end of Tim’s bed as he scrambled to find his way in the darkness; he stepped on something a bit more solid and said, “Uhh…” at the same time that Tim let out a whimper and murmured, “Did you break my box?”

“Maybe?” Jason asked. “Are you alive? I thought you didn’t sleep?”

“I _need_ that box,” Tim whined, using all of his energy to push himself up. “And you’re right. I don’t. I’m crashing. There’s a light switch on the wall.”

“Crashing?” Jason echoed, and he moved in the darkness, a shadow against darker shadows, cursing as he stumbled over even more discarded junk scattered on the floor of Tim’s room.

When the lights came on, Tim scrunched his eyes closed.

“Oh. Wow,” Jason said, and Tim heard an energy can crunch beneath his foot. He was sure it was one of nearly a dozen that peppered his carpet, and he blinked his eyes open when warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and tugged him forward. “Come on, you need to eat something.”

Tim stumbled out of bed, too tired to care. Back when he’d had time to sleep, he’d been a night owl; _waking_ definitely wasn’t his forte.

“Do you even _have_ food?” Jason asked, and Tim stifled a yawn and attempted to stretch, drifting past his kitchen and to the living room, where his homework and tech projects lay scattered.

“I think I have brie?” he answered absently. “Oh, D gave me some protein bars…”

“Dick knows you live like this and he gave you _protein bars_?”

“No,” Tim mumbled, shaking his head. “No, no. I mean, Dick _has_ been over, but the protein bars are from the other D. Little D. Did I just call him that? Ugh. Damian. The child.”

Pantry doors clamored and Tim heard his refrigerator open more than once, and as time ventured on, Tim slowly defeated the grog. By the time clarity gripped him, Jason was standing in front of him, holding out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His eyes, however, were drawn to the line of energy drinks Tim had situated for his study session.

“How many of those do you drink?”

Tim took the sandwich, nodding his head in thanks before saying, “Not enough, apparently. Okay, so what are we working on tonight?”

Drifting to the space between his coffee table and couch, Tim kicked away various items – blankets, cans, bags, wires, two tablets – and moved on to carefully closing his textbooks, saving his pages with color coded tears of post-it notes he’d stolen from the receptionist at WE. He welcomed Jason to join him on the couch with a gentle _pat-pat_ on the cushion beside him, but Jason simply stared, as if he hadn’t decided whether or not Tim’s window had been a door to an alternate dimension.

“Well?” Tim queried.

“I’m sorry, I feel like I just walked into what will eventually need an intervention, and I’m trying to decide how I feel about it.”

“You feel like getting a GED,” Tim told him. _Pat-pat._

Jason moved like a man thrust into unfamiliar territory, like his entire world had just been shaken, not stirred, and here he was trying to make sense of it. He stepped on something that snapped and immediately darted forward, sitting beside Tim, dipping the couch between them.

“Probably a pencil,” Tim murmured around a bite of sandwich, and when Jason looked back, he saw the cracked remains buried in carpet, in need of an excavation. “Also,” Tim added, “My apartment doesn’t need security. Would _you_ rob it?”

Even though Jason remained quiet, as if politely contemplating the question, his eyes gave him away.

No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Well, uh,” Jason stated, and Tim watched as he let a backpack slide from his shoulders – it was interesting, seeing Jason with a backpack, looking like someone Tim might run into on campus. It brought back that feeling, the one that made him say stupid things before self-preservation slid in to stop him. “I guess we could finish the math section, since we were working on that the other night…”

Tim nodded before holding out his hand, marveling at what a difference _light_ made when getting a good look at the workbook Jason was plowing through. It wasn’t old so much as it was abused; Tim decided he must have been staring at it a moment too long, because Jason moved to snatch it back.

A smothered, “Hey!” was forced from Tim’s lungs as he struggled to keep the book at bay, holding it as far away as he could – pulse racing as Jason nearly folded over him in an attempt to retrieve it.

A thousand thoughts bombarded Tim’s brain, things like: _so this is what his aftershave smells like,_ and: _oh, I didn’t realize his eyes had green in them_. If Tim hadn’t been fully awake before, he definitely was now, and his sudden, stuttered silence had enough gravity to bring Jason’s gaze crashing to his own.

“Obviously, I couldn’t use my own name,” Jason stated, and Tim tried not to watch the way his mouth moved to form the words.

Instead, he kept his eyes glued to Jason’s and let out a blunt and very articulated, “What?”

The expression on Jason’s face came close to disbelief, though unamusement tugged the corners of his lips closer to a frown. When he sat back, Tim followed, eyes drifting to the book’s cover, where a name had been jotted in Sharpie.

“Peter…Jackson?” Tim raised an eyebrow, bringing the book back to his lap. “Is this, like, your GED alias?”

“Oh, like _Alvin Draper_ was a winner,” Jason shot back, and Tim’s expression dissolved into pure, unadulterated judgment as he pointed a finger in Jason’s direction and tossed back, “ _Alvin Draper_ didn’t direct _Lord of the Rings_ , Jason.”

Jason’s eyes went wide and his mouth parted, only to snap closed – only to fall open once again.

“ _That’s_ why it sounded so familiar….”

This time, Tim laughed outright. “Dear diary,” Tim joked, leaning forward in an effort to snag his phone from the table, which Jason deftly fought to avoid. “I’m _so_ gonna post a tweet about this–”

“No. No you’re _not_ –”

“GED. The _one diploma_ to _rule them all_ —”

“They’re our middle names!” Jason huffed, long-limbed enough to flatten a palm against Tim’s chest to keep him from being able to reach his phone. “Peter. Jackson,” he reiterated, before dropping his tone to its typical, steamrolled sarcasm. “But thank you so much for inviting me to your apartment without belittling me once.”

 The whole idea caught Tim off guard. Why on earth would Jason choose  _their_  middles names? It was even more impressive, Tim thought, that Jason even knew his. Well, and that he'd  _use_ it for something.

Swallowing, he repeated, “Peter Jackson,” and the name sat between them for less than a second before Tim dissolved into laughter again, despite the fact he knew the truth behind it. “Jason, you have made my  _life_.”

“Congrats on being easily pleased,” Jason offered with a sigh, and Tim smiled when his eyes chanced the Sharpie’d cover, just before he flipped open to where they’d left off before. He reached for an unopened energy drink and popped the tab, not at all bothered by the fact it was now room temperature.

“So,” he stated, feeling Jason’s gaze dance between him and the caffeinated beverage at his fingertips. “Where should we begin?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
The next morning didn’t _arrive_ , in that Jason had shown up around 1am and so Tim had already technically been awake. The sun certainly made an effort to climb a stack of clouds to reach his zenith, and the entire time, Tim danced to his same routines.

As usual, he was late to Wayne Enterprises, courtesy of a subway delay. Also a common occurrence, he impressed a room full of stockholders with a detailed report on the growth of the company with an emphasis on new projects scheduled to roll out over the remainder of the year.

Several people had questions; Tim always had an answer. Bruce arrived nearly fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to end and enamored the small crowd with his easygoing air of confidence, which many of the shareholders treated like sunlight, and basked.

It was the one day of the week that Tim didn’t have class, aside from weekends, which meant that it was the only chance he had to do the various things he needed daylight for, such as fix his bike.

His complex came with pricey little storage sheds, and he kept Little Red tucked away in an effort to keep her from being stolen. As tech savvie as he was, there was no way he could prevent her from disappearing if he simply threw a tarp over her and abandoned her to some garage.

So, on days like today, he wheeled her out and tinkered, constantly putting his mind to work. It felt good to be busy.  
  
It was nearly dark when he decided to check his phone, not quite expecting so many texts. Most were updates, the typical _‘hope you’re doing okay’_ type check-ins, and surprisingly, a message sat, unread, from Jason.

 _If tonight’s slow, you know where to find me_.

“If tonight is slow,” he mocked, because this was  _Gotham_  and that was a rarity. Still, the invite had Tim looking at the time, remembering the night before and the content they’d reviewed - the moments that Jason had gotten certain answers correct and how success had painted a rare smile that lit the edges of his face.

It was such a simple thing, but it made Tim feel an unfamiliar warmth; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that type of accomplishment, and seeing the excitement in Jason’s eyes was enough to get a secondhand high. It made pulse do silly things, like stumble.

 _I’ll let you know_ , he replied, because, with crime the way it was, that was the best he could do.  
  
Somehow though, Tim knew they’d both find time.  
  
  
***

  
  
And they did, thus beginning the routine of Tim and Jason racing to complete patrols; a steadfast habit that soon turned into a competition to see who could beat who to the weather-vane topped warehouse. Though most of their study sessions were spent legs-dangling over the old, crumbling rooftop ledge, they once ended up sitting across from each other at a neon-lit diner in a darker part of town.

Tim had forgotten the feel of a full stomach and downed a milkshake just because he could. When Jason teased him about it, Tim stubbornly ordered a second, intent to relish the sugary rush that made his head feel light and coolness that had his skin prickling.

Napkins littered the space between them, peppered in scribbled notes. Drops of dewy soda spotted the table, trapped between smeared rings of condensation. Plates pushed aside, workbook center-table, Tim remembered lifting his eyes, just once, to catch Jason’s attention lingering on his face.

“What?” Tim had asked, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. “Ketchup?”

Jason’s expression hadn’t given anything away. He answered, “Ketchup.”

It wasn’t until later that evening that Tim realized his sleeve had come away completely clean.

With such a minimal amount of time standing between them and Jason’s exam, every spare bit of time seemed to count – from the nights they managed to flip through flashcards to Tim’s hectic, run-around-town days.

“I’ve got to go; I’m headed into a meeting,” Tim would say after talking Jason through the laws of thermodynamics, fingers tangled in the knot of a half-formed tie.

Halfway through another day, he might be fighting for a lecture hall chair, carefully listing out the order of operations for a particularly complex math problem.

“Class about to start?” Jason would ask.

Tim would reply, “Yeah, but you’ve got this. Try it again and we’ll touch base later.”

The days became quick rushes of midsummer haze, Tim darting here-and-there, only half awake but somehow brimming with energy. A visit to Wayne Manor earned him a care package from Alfred and at some point, his midterm grades posted. Tim had nearly forgotten he had been waiting for them.

With a life so fast-paced, Tim hadn’t noticed how normal it had become for he and Jason to text here and there. In fact, Jason probably knew more about his schedule than anyone else.

Still, it had _not_ occurred to Tim, for instance, to text Jason to let him know he’d been shot (grazed, really) and was on bed rest (Alfred’s orders, Batman’s decree). It was the one night that studying got shoved to the backburner – Jason was across town, doing whatever for Roy’s birthday, and Tim was unequivocally down-for-the-count, not used to _checking in_ with anyone.

It also had not occurred to him – even _once_ – that Jason might come looking for him; that the Red Hood might brave Tim’s apartment one more time – that Tim might awaken from a deep and fantastical dream to the sound of panicked popping and a poison-laced, _“Mother fucker!”_

Of course, he also did not predict the following, crunching, _snap_.

“ _The box,”_ Tim whined.

“Dick told Roy who told _me_ what happened – are you okay?” Jason asked, and his shuffling made it apparent he was attempting to untangle himself from sticky sheets of plastic. A step forward sent him through a tower of cans. “For the love of—“

Jason hit the light.

“ _My eyes_ ,” Tim moaned, before trying to rollover, only a slurred groan bled from between his lips. “Ah, my arm…”

“Tim,” Jason stated, deadpan. “You’re bleeding.”

Tim blinked blearily, his head a cottony sort-of chaos. The room around him seemed floaty and he felt he weighed less than a penny. “What?” he asked, head lulling sideways until he saw the seeped-through bandages and his blood-blotted bedding. “Oh. That.”

Jason’s steps were easy to follow; he came close enough to the head of Tim’s bed to block out the light from Tim’s lamp. A _shake-shake_ of pills followed, along with Jason’s question of, “These from B?”

“They’re for me,” Tim murmured, sleepily. “I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, we've covered that,” Jason replied, and then his fingers found Tim’s good arm and tugged him upright, forcing Tim’s legs to spill over the edge – Tim wobbled dizzily for a moment as Jason’s palm held him steady.

“You should be studying.” Tim’s words clung to each other, like one sweep of sound.

Jason let out a breath through his nose. “When’s the last time you changed these?”

Tim turned his head to watch Jason’s free hand fiddle with the ribbons of medical tape that kept patches of sterile pads pressed to his skin and felt vaguely offended. “One does not simply _change their own bandages_ ,” he stated loosely, but when Jason’s eyes flickered to his, showing more concern than anything else, Tim merely shrugged.

“Too tired,” he explained, because it was the truth. After taking pain meds the night before, he’d crashed, and this was as coherent as he’d been since.

“Yeah, well,” Jason didn’t look surprised, and his gaze drifted to the pills on Tim’s nightstand. “Are there stitches under here?” he asked, carefully peeling back tape.

“Yes,” Tim nodded, unintentionally dragging out the _s._

“Was it deep?”

“Mmm,” Tim hummed, catching himself as he drifted sideways. “Yes.”

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Jason questioned, and Tim hadn’t realized he was staring at his bedroom door until Jason’s forefinger settled under his chin and guided him back.

“Bathroom,” Tim answered, somehow aware of each time his lungs filled to take in a breath. It was some sort of hyper awareness, but the kind that couldn’t quite stay focused on one thing in particular.

Jason stood up and left Tim to his own devices – which weren’t much, because the fog of exhaustion made his eyelids feel weighted with gold. Quietly, he slipped sideways, curling atop his good arm over the plush fabric of a fleece blanket.

It felt like hours before he was being pulled upright again, Jason’s hands much warmer than his tone, which sounded torn between concern and frustration.

“You gotta stay awake, Timbo,” he said.

“Mm,” Tim acknowledged, noncommittal. He felt Jason trace the jagged line of stitches with his finger and hissed when a damp cloth blotted the edges, gritting his teeth tiredly against a not entirely unfamiliar ache. After all, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Did you do these?” Jason asked, and Tim had to focus on the words to follow Jason’s train of thought.

“Th’stitches?” he asked, just before shaking his head. “Um. B. It’s gonna scar, ‘sn’t it.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement; Bruce’s first aid was quick and practical, if nothing else.

“You think after so many years this would look slightly less _med-student_ ,” Jason commented, apologizing when he prodded one particularly sore spot. “When did you get home this morning?”

Tim’s head lulled backwards and he stared at his popcorn ceiling in thought. “Mm…maybe two?”

The hypersensitivity returned, only this time it clung to how warm Jason was; he was so close that Tim felt heat coming off him in waves, which, he deduced, probably meant he had a fever.

“Is it infected?” Tim questioned.

“No,” Jason said, and the word spilled across Tim’s ear. He couldn’t help the goosebumps that erupted on his skin, didn’t _want_ to help them, didn’t want to disturb the careful application of anti-bac cream on the sore flesh of his bicep. “You’ve been out all day though. When I’m done, let’s make something to eat.”

The idea was inviting.

At least until Tim dissected the words.

“All day?” he said. “No, no–” he murmured, and then he was trying to move, which brought Jason’s palm back to the soft cotton tee he was wearing. “I have a meeting. And a class. What time is it?”

Jason’s palm drew back just enough so that he had a finger pressed to Tim’s sternum, and his tone dipped low. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Jason made a buzzer-like noise and followed it with a _shoosh_. “You need to eat and you need to sleep.”

Tim grumbled but gave up arguing; his eyes slipped closed as he gave in to the rhythmic motion of Jason re-bandaging his arm, answering any of Jason’s lingering questions with small, tired _yes_ ’s or _no_ ’s.

The journey to the living room was a tiring trudge, and Jason abandoned him on the couch in order to scavenge the kitchen. Tim stared thoughtlessly at his phone, which he decided he must have left on the coffee table the night before.

Between opening and closing cabinet doors, Jason stated, “Congratulations on having the world’s tallest pile of dirty dishes, by the way,” and Tim grunted.

“I’m in between maid services,” he stated as the other returned with bits and pieces from the care package Alfred had put together. At the sight of sausage, cheese, and crackers, Tim thought he’d never been so hungry in his life.

“Don’t take any more of those pills,” Jason advised, and Tim wondered how desperate he must look, tearing chunks of smoked sausage from the link before jamming them between his lips. “I mean,” Jason added, “do you even feel anything?”

“Nothing,” Tim confirmed between bites.

“You’re sleep-eating.”

“ _Starving_ ,” Tim hummed, making a grabby hand for a glass of water that Jason had brought for him. While he worked his way through the plate, Jason dragged out his workbook, which made Tim shake his head forlornly. “I can’t help you today.”

Jason snorted. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Just get some rest. I’ll stay until later.”

Tim passed forward a plate full of crumbs and tipped backwards, sagging into a corner crevasse of his couch. His arm ached and he felt buzzed, though he was definitely fighting a losing battle against sleep.

“Is this a dream?” he found himself asking, because really, he couldn’t be sure. Jason’s shoulders were less than an arm’s reach away, and all he could smell was that damn aftershave.

“Nope. But you probably won’t remember any of it, anyway.”

“Mmm...” Tim hummed, content. It felt like a dream. It was nice having Jason around. It felt good not to _think._ It felt good to feel good, and for once, his heart rushed in a way that made him feel like he'd stumbled across some incredibly obvious thing he'd somehow never quite completely acknowledged.  
  
With slow-dragged, sleepy vowels, he murmured, “Hey,” and then, “are you good at keeping secrets?”

Jason’s pencil paused mid-scribble. “What?” The word was tinged with humor, but also something else. _Responsibility_ , probably, because Jason was, at heart, a good soul. “Uh, no. No I am not.”

“Oh,” Tim breathed out, disappointed. Then, “Because I think I like you.”

The words hung; Tim’s eyes had long fluttered closed, and so he only heard, distantly, Jason ask, “What?” too long after.

The exhaustion was real now, and Tim could feel the warm tug of sleep pulling him under. It was all he could do to breathe, “Shh,” against his pillow, and then, with a long sigh, “It’s a secret.”

Outside the window, the world hummed.

  
***

  
Consciousness was a fickle thing, a colorful ribbon that slipped between Tim’s fingers. The smallest fuzzy fragments were just beyond his grasp, memories that blurred together, lost to passing time.

When Tim woke, he was alone.

Had he imagined Jason? He suspected it was possible; the images that attempted to drag themselves from the depths were vague and simplistic – the curve of Jason’s neck from behind, the way Jason’s mouth moved as he read silently to himself, the temples of his glasses, sloped against his ear…

Tim frowned.

_Glasses?_

Since when did Jason wear glasses?

“ _Ugh,_ ” Tim groaned just before dragging his hands down his face. On a scale of 1 to that time he’d tripped while waving _hello_ to Superman, Jason Todd _babysitting_ him landed a hard 7.

Also, Tim wasn’t even entirely sure he was in _his_ apartment?

Looking around, it was…clean. _Too_ clean. Gone were the cans scattered on his floor; stacked were the books he’d dropped here and there and never bothered to pick up. Weeks of smeared spills, _wiped clean_ – and if Tim tilted his head at just the right angle, he could see that his mile-high stack of dirty dishes was no longer threatening to fall victim to physics.

It was unsettling; Tim didn’t really like people touching his things. It was a product of paranoia – having a secret identity had that effect. It felt awkward though, knowing _Jason_ had picked up after him; Tim had no reason to feel embarrassed but he _did_ , and as his mind skittered through all the possible projects Jason could have busied himself with, he felt his heart do a little lurch.

He wouldn’t have… _gone through_ anything, would he?

Tim wasn’t sure. He was up in an instant though, wandering down the hallway that led to his room, fingertips brushing the wall just in case he needed balance. He hated the feel of after-medicine grog, where the world felt foreign and his thoughts seemed to stumble.

The first thing he noticed was that his bed was stripped; he vaguely remembered blood on his comforter. The second was that this room apparently had carpet. It was beige.

Tim’s eyes darted, searching. They found what they sought – a box at the end of his bed, crumpled, he assumed, because Jason had stepped on it _again_. Other than that, it seemed untouched; Tim dropped to a crouch and examined it, breathing a soft sigh of relief. For a moment he was tempted to open it.

He decided not to.

After all, even if it was damaged - well, it didn’t matter. Tim tucked it under his bed frame, thinking it might fair better with shelter, and took a deep breath.

He had to keep it safe.

Shortly after, Tim hunted down his phone, not entirely surprised to see a slew of texts. Bruce telling him not to come in; Dick making sure he was alive. A message from Tiffany, his assistant, said that his meetings had been rescheduled for today and the next, along with a succinct, _I’ve got everything handled._

With a sigh, Tim sent a message to Jason, more out of habit than anything else.

_So. About last night._

He waited a moment, resisting the urge to ask _what exactly happened_  before Jason had a chance to reply. After all, it was the perfect opening for Jason to be _Jason_ and turn the whole ordeal into a joke – which is why it caught Tim by surprise when a message came through that read, simply:

_Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?_

Tim frowned. His apartment wasn’t _that_ bad.

 _I’ll cook_ , Jason added.

...unless Jason had found something sentient in the fridge, which wasn’t an impossibility. How long ago had be bought the brie?

 _Sure_ , Tim texted, not willing to ask. He added: _also_ _I refuse to feel embarrassed about all this._

Jason shot back: _Good._

Tim blinked. Then he shrugged.

Nothing much must have happened at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I still don't have a posting schedule, but it will probably be a few weeks before I post three. I'm finishing up the last chapters and I just want to leave open some flexibility in case I need to come back and add anything. Also Halloween is coming up and I help run a big event so...I am going to be a little distracted, haha.
> 
> Thank you so much for your amazing comments on the first chapter; they were so very fun and inspiring and I really, really appreciated the time taken to leave a note. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason attempts to woo Tim, who has no recollection of some rather important words from the night before.

It struck Tim as surprising when he realized he’d been invited to one of Jason’s safehouses – one he _didn’t_ know about. It opened a whole new train of thought, one that flickered between the odd sensation that he felt like he _knew_ Jason, to the offputting idea that maybe he didn’t.

More than that, Tim felt a deeper stir of emotion at having been _let in_ ; after all, he’d figured out the other safehouses on his own. This location had been gifted.

Repeating the directions to himself, Tim biked familiar roads until they tapered to dirt, following hardened tracks as they wove together, shaping paths between buildings in Gotham’s warehouse district. Streetlights rhythmically prodded at the darkness and Tim followed the bursts of light like breadcrumbs, hoping he wouldn’t run into trouble – it was quiet, and Tim was paranoid enough to know that silence in dark places rarely spelled safety.

Tim’s caution battled with something else: the inexplicable yet heartfelt certainty that _Jason_ and _safe_ were two words that seemed interconnected. Jason was smart and wouldn’t choose a safehouse that put him or his secrets at risk and Tim trusted Jason, which made the shadows less ominous.

Tim’s imagination wandered as he pictured Jason following this same path to get home, hitting the same bumps in the road, squinting under the same spills of lamplight. Tim’s eyes caught holes in the chain-linked fence, some big, some small; he thought for a moment that he might be able to memorize them, that he might _want_ to, that this place was new – a darkened corner of Gotham he’d never thought to explore.

The engine of Tim’s bike revved heartily, echoing when he pulled into the lifted doors of a loading bay. The lights inside were dim; Tim guessed to avoid any attention from anyone passing on the freeway, which had an overpass that overlooked the area. Tim followed the detailed instructions that Jason had left him earlier; he entered the code to close the doors, set their alarm and doffed his helmet, holding it between his good arm and ribs while looking around.

Six cars, a few bikes – two of which were either half taken apart or half put together. Stacks of tires lined the wall and Tim couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, wondering if the vehicles had been salvaged or stolen.

“You’re late,” Jason said, and Tim’s head fell sideways, catching sight of him.

“You should talk to your HOA about the lighting out there,” Tim stated, abandoning his helmet to a worktable. “I could barely see the road.”

Jason, who stood atop a mezzanine in the far corner, leaned forward so that his elbows pressed against the railing. Behind him, an open door offered a flood of light. “That’s because there _is_ no road.”

“You might want to tell them that, too.”

Jason’s eyes did more speaking than his mouth; light caught the humor there and Tim thought, for a small moment, that he was witnessing something rare and unguarded. It was almost as if Jason was searching him, waiting for something – and Tim felt undeniably like he had forgotten something very important.

His expression must have given him away; in less than a moment’s passing, Jason’s demeanor shifted, his gaze somehow incendiary; the whole of Jason’s expression looked a bit wolfish in the light.

“You didn’t drive here on any of those fancy pain meds, did you, Timbers?”

As Tim’s sneakers settled onto the flat of the mezzanine floor, he rolled his eyes, not entirely sure if he was being made fun of or not. He realized that his hands had found the pockets of his windbreaker, and felt a steady huff of air conditioning cool the damp on his forehead, left behind from his helmet.

“I’m flattered,” Tim said, only somewhat amused, “that you think I’d even be able to _make it here_.”

Jason smirked. “Touche. You could barely make it to the couch.”

“Don’t remind me,” Tim sighed, peeking past Jason towards the propped-open door behind him. This close, the smell of food was evident - _real food_ , scent wafting, spices simmering - and Tim’s stomach startled him with a grumbling demand for it. He could feel Jason’s eyes on him, and so he said, “Bruce has me off patrol _and_ on leave from the office.”

Jason straightened and there was a playfulness to it. “Oh no. _Free time_. What ever will you do?”

“Have dinner with you, apparently,” Tim countered with a grin.

 The bay’s air conditioning had Tim’s arms freckling with goosebumps even under his jacket, which drew his attention towards the entryway – and Jason, noticing, motioned for Tim to follow him over the threshold.

The whole upper landing had been converted, Tim noticed, which wasn’t a surprise. People rarely _built_ safehouses – they found a location and then made modifications. This warehouse wasn’t an exception.

“Whose place was this?” Tim asked, eyes wandering the space. It was open; industrial. Not quite Jason’s style, even if the decor was meticulously placed and organized to a fault.  A bed here, a couch there. A wall of weaponry that occupied an entire stretch of wall that made Tim frown.

Jason stepped past him, causing their shoulders to brush.

“Ever the master of deduction,” Jason said, and Tim decided to follow him to the kitchen, which, to Tim’s fascination, looked like the most lived-in part of the entire space. “It’s one of Bertinelli’s old digs. Roy and I fixed it up.”

Tim’s gaze followed the track lighting in the ceiling. “You know, having no fire sprinklers is against code.”

Jason pressed in close to the stove just so he could lift the top of a simmering pot where Tim watched steam escape in a cloud. Through the haze, Jason caught his eyes. “Are you citing me, officer?”

The thought was entertaining. “I might,” Tim commented. Drawn to the ease of it, he added, “We’ll see how dinner goes.”

Whatever Jason was making smelled heavenly and Tim knew he was out of his element; there were two cutting boards on the countertop which meant _fresh produce_ had been used, and Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a vegetable outside of a can. He crept closer, before guessing, “Pasta?”

Jason laughed. “Once again, your powers of deduction are unrivaled.” The sarcasm was chased by an offering – Jason held a ladle out for Tim to taste the sauce.

After a sigh, Tim gave in and tried it, only to glance up to Jason and say, “First citation.”

Jason tasted it next and when he licked his lips, Tim noticed. “Since when is garlic against code?”

Tim made a conscious effort to look offended. “Uh, when it’s _that_ good. Forget it – I’m going home. I know an intervention when I see one.”

Jason pressed his lips together, looking both smug and immensely amused when Tim made no real effort to leave. He shifted to turn off burners and move pots and skillets, and after that was done, prodded Tim in the stomach to take a step back. Apparently there was garlic bread in the oven.

“I hate to break it to you,” Jason commented, drawing out the golden bread with a mitt, “but the intervention started last night.”

Tim thought about his apartment and how it looked brand new and that Jason had _stayed_ with him, and...and something else. Was there something else?

“I told you,” Tim stated, aiming to look distracted. “I refuse to feel ashamed.”

Beside him, Jason moved about, pulling plates from a cabinet before setting them out and onto the countertop.

“Well,” Jason started, moving to the sink where a strainer held a heaping mound of pasta. “ _Obviously,_ I invited you over for dinner. Two and two tends to equal four.”

Tim turned the words over carefully in his head, trying to make sense of them. Before he could, Jason asked,  “How hungry are you?”

Tim eyed the way Jason sifted pasta in the bowl and his stomach growled. “Starving,” he said, and then asked, “Why _did_ you invite me over for dinner?”

The answer that Tim expected was, of course, _sympathy_. After all, Jason was a firsthand witness to how Tim lived.

Instead, Jason delivered him a rather ominous look. “Why do you _think_ I did?”

“Because I’m helping you study,” Tim said, matter-of-fact, “and because you don’t think I should live off protein bars.”

Jason quirked a brow.

Tim bit his lip. “And...because you wanted to show off your safehouse?”  
  
At that, Jason simply stared. Then, he blinked. He lifted his arm and dragged his fingers through his hair and let out a low, nearly-exasperated, “ _Wow._ ”

In an effort to try and deduce just _what_ he was missing, Tim’s eyes wandered the space around them. He added, “It’s a very nice safehouse.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason commented, and he seemed to settle for handing Tim a pair of plates. “Help me set the table?”

Tim, still feeling like he was missing something, obliged.

 

~

 

Dinner was a quick affair, mostly because Tim hadn’t been lying when he’d confessed to being famished. He offered to help clean, but Jason had given him a wry look.

“I wasn’t aware you knew how to wash dishes.”

“Ouch,” Tim had replied, but he’d left it at that. Cleaning wasn’t his forte, and even if it had been, he doubted he could match the pristine cleanliness that Jason seemed to thrive in.

So, while Jason ran water and jostled plates, Tim wandered the space like it was a museum. In some ways, it was. Half the weapons Jason had mounted were practical; the rest were antiques. Old, arched talwar blades lined one wall, intermittently separated by shamshir daggers. A lone katana stretched languidly, a fine piece in good condition. Beneath it, a glass case showed off a timeworn collection of arrowheads.

Tim leaned in close enough that his breath fogged the glass.

To someone who risked his life most nights, a wall peppered with swords was a pleasant reminder to be thankful for technology. He didn’t even want to think about vigilantism in the time of swordplay; mastering the bo staff had been difficult enough.

“How’s the arm?” Jason asked.

Tim turned, watching as Jason toweled his hands dry. It was impossible to ignore the way that the tendons in Jason’s forearms flexed, and Tim felt awkward when he caught himself staring. His eyes flickered upward as he hummed, “Hm?”

One corner of Jason’s lips quirked. “Your graze,” he said. “Are you going to live?”

Tim couldn’t tell if he was being made fun of and so he narrowed his eyes dubiously. “I’m sorry, but are you under the impression that this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?”

It was fun watching Jason, always in movement, always so _readable_ and yet somehow so impossible to decipher. He flipped the hand-towel back so that it took to the air briefly before coming to rest against the curve of his neck and delivered Tim a dead-set, knowing stare.

“The worst thing to happen to you was, _obviously,_ losing a butler.”

Tim choked. “ _Oh my god_ ,” he sighed, exasperated. “I am not–”

“That bad?” Jason interrupted, and his gaze almost fell half-lidded. He said, “You _are_ ,” as if it was some universal truth and then added, “but don’t worry. It’s cute.”

Tim’s skin prickled in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with air conditioning. As usual, Jason’s words were easy to stumble over; with Jason’s personality, it was impossible to tell what to take seriously.

At the moment, Tim suspected he was _definitely_ being made fun of.

“Hey,” Tim said. “I was surviving _perfectly_ fine before we started this whole arrangement.”

“Uh huh,” Jason was still smiling, though his lips had folded inward as though it was taking a controlled effort not to laugh. “You know most people don’t typically have to, you know, _survive_ their down time, right?”

“What _down time_ ?” Tim joked, just before squaring his shoulders with a bit of drama. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I am _Timothy Drake-Wayne._ You know, Economic Analyst for Wayne Enterprises, full-time student, _Red Robin_ –”

“Tutor,” Jason threw in helpfully. “Can’t forget that. I mean, your resume clearly lacks _experience_.”

It was boyish, but Tim was so easily dragged into Jason’s tempo that the words simply slipped out. “Hey, whatever I lack in _practical_ skills I make up for in multitasking. Who else can sign international trade agreements and bring mob bosses to their knees all in one day?”

Jason snorted. “Bruce? Actually, I’d be willing to bet he doesn’t know how to use a vacuum either.”

It had been a long time since Tim had consciously thought about how alike he and Bruce were, and he crinkled his nose at the realization that Jason was probably right. Eager to wave off the topic, he sighed and said, “It’s a rich kid thing.”

“You don’t strike me as the silver-spoon type, Timmers.”

“Funny,” Tim quipped back, “since you’ve been doing an impressive job of spoiling me.”

Jason stilled for a moment, all until a slow smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

Tim suddenly felt hot. He wasn’t even entirely sure why. The detective in him guessed that it had to do with the fact that Jason wasn’t really denying it.

“Well,” Jason finally inched. His tone matched the smile he seemed intent to keep. “You _are_ helping with a secret.”

“It’s a GED Jason, not murder.”

Even laced with sarcasm, the comment did nothing to derail Jason’s amusement. “I’m just doing my best to say _thanks_ ,” he said. “I’m certainly open to requests.”

Tim tried to hide his humor when he asked, “Requests? What, like cleaning my apartment regularly?”

But Jason, ever quick on his feet, replied, “Or, you know. Maybe there’s something that you want but are too afraid to ask for?”

At that, Tim _did_ laugh. “What?”  
  
“Involving me?”

Tim’s smile was all confusion. “So, just to clarify, I’m not helping you because I expect anything in return? It’s important to you, and so I want to help, and–”

“Okay,” Jason interrupted, looking perplexed. “You _have_ to be doing this on purpose.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“ _This_.”

When Tim didn’t reply, Jason groaned and leaned forward until his elbows were balanced languidly on his knees. His hands fell limp, but his gaze effectively pinned Tim where he sat.

“This whole _missing the obvious_ thing you’ve got going on. You’re Red Robin, for god’s sake. You can’t be _this_ oblivious.”

Tim backtracked through the conversation, trying to figure out where they could have deviated. It took real effort to sift through the dialogue, and he felt odd that he even had to.

 _Something you’re too afraid to ask for,_ Jason had said. _Involving me._

Jason, _always_ flirting.

Jason, _always_ tossing out innuendos.

“Please tell me you are _not_ talking about sex.”

Jason spit a “ _What?"_ before adding, "For the love of _–”_ but a sharp sound made them both jolt, followed by a heavy vibration that made the floors hum.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. Of course he was new to this hideout, but he wasn’t unfamiliar with warehouses; bay doors were huge and when they moved on their tracks, the entire building typically felt it.

“Expecting company?” Tim asked, because Jason’s frown showed that he hadn’t. Adrenaline pulled Tim’s pulse to a jog, especially when he saw the way Jason’s expression darkened. 

It occurred to Tim that if anyone came here seeking out Red Hood, they might be shocked to find Timothy Drake-Wayne with him.

Jason leaned over his coffee table, hands smoothing along the bottom until Tim heard velcro tear. When he pulled back, he had a pistol in hand, and he checked it’s safety before tossing it Tim’s direction.

Catching it was child’s play, but schooling his expression was not. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

As Jason walked past, he pressed his palm to Tim’s chest in a silent motion for Tim to get back, to find some place out of sight. His fingers were warm, even through the fabric of Tim’s t-shirt, and Tim let out a breath before he rounded the hallway corner and pressed his back to the wall.

Looking left, he saw a doorway – probably to Jason’s room.  
  
_Something you’re too afraid to ask for_ , Tim heard the words again. And, counting measured breaths, he eyed the gun in his hands before rolling his eyes.

The front door opened.

The ensuing gap of silence ate at Tim’s nerves.

Then: “Jesus Christ, Harper.”

Tim tipped his head back against the wall, ineffectively eyeing popcorn ceiling. _Of course_ , his mind supplied.

The door squealed and a burst of raucous laughter battled its resonance. “Aw, Jaybird. You know how much _I love_ your weapon in my face, but a _welcome home_ would have done just fine.”

Tim’s fingers twitched. He spun from his spot, taking the few steps he needed to in order to come into sight, and barely waited for Jason to look at him before he tossed the pistol back to its owner.

“Please, don’t let me get in the way of your _loaded guns_ ,” he stated, colorlessly. “I was just taking off.”

It was a rare thing for Tim to run into Roy; they hardly ever crossed paths. Still, Roy never seemed to change. His red hair and freckles were wild in the light, and the grin that cut his lips did so with an insidious upward slant.

“Ohoho,” Roy smiled, showing teeth. His eyes darted from Tim to Jason, who was shaking his hand out from having caught the gun awkwardly. “I interrupt something?”

Tim waited for Jason to say something, but Jason only delivered Roy a glare. Roy didn’t even have the decency to look confused; he just laughed.

After lifting his hand in a somewhat tight-laced and dismissive salute, Tim took a step towards the door, only to be blocked by Roy who spread out his arms as if welcoming Tim into an embrace.

“So, you see,” Roy started, rolling his head back animatedly. “I may have been followed.”

Tim paused, dumbfounded.

“No shit?” Jason asked, and when Roy gave him a look peppered with apology, suddenly, Jason was moving.

“Candles still under the sink?” Roy questioned, brushing past Tim with a confident, sauntering swagger. Jason was nodding as he made his way towards the bay, where Roy had come from.

Tim followed, not daring get stuck here _an entire night_.

At the base of the metal staircase, Jason turned on him, looking taller somehow and more serious with his brows set and lips pursed.

“You can’t leave, babybird. This area is a maze.”

Tim could see his bike from the corner of his eye. “So draw me a map,” he said. “And don’t call me that.”

Something akin to resignation tugged at Jason’s features. There was no guilt in his expression, just a gray-colored knowingness. “You’re not Red Robin right now, if you haven’t noticed.”

He meant, of course, that Tim _out there_ would be a sitting duck - just some normal guy on a bike who’d probably be fun target practice for whatever dirtbags Roy had inspired to chase him.

“You’re staying,” Jason decided. He even leveraged a stare to prove his point, which irked Tim into turning on his heels and stalking back up the mezzanine stairs.  When he made it to the living room, he huffed idly and plopped onto the couch, watching Roy wander the room with emergency candles clutched to his chest.

Dressed as Arsenal, it looked more than a little bit ridiculous.

“Why are we lighting candles?” Tim asked.

After setting one down in the dining room, Roy took a few strides in Tim’s direction before dropping to a crouch on the opposite side of the coffee table. His fingers were long and lean, but even from a few feet away, Tim could make out the callouses on their tips.

“Mm,” Roy hummed, and his eyes danced upward as if Tim was some fine piece of under-appreciated art. “Never heard of setting the mood?”

Tim stared, his expression flat.

A grin split Roy’s lips just before he spilled a quick laugh. “We’re killin’ the lights, Red. Don't want any big bad wolves comin’ after your pretty little face now, do we?”

Tim licked his lips, unimpressed, just before leaning forward. When he held his arm out, Roy simply followed the movement, looking amused when Tim simply flicked the brim of his hat, popping it upward just enough for a sliver of light to catch his jade-green eyes through his domino mask.

“Last I checked, I wasn't a damsel in distress,” Tim said in a leveled tone.

The flicker in Roy’s eyes made Tim feel like he’d proven a point. Still, Roy smiled broadly as he brushed Tim’s fingers aside with his own. “Maybe not a damsel,” he offered, “but you bats are _always_ in distress.”

Behind him, Jason emerged from the now-darkened bay and tugged the entryway door closed. A keypad beside it beeped, and Tim found it easy to see why Jason was so offended by his apartment’s lack of security precautions. This place was like a prison.

“I’m sorry,” Tim drolled, “but are we hiding from _people_ or trying to survive a nuclear holocaust?”  

When Roy stood, a huffed laugh escaped him.

Jason, who had disappeared into the kitchen, came back into sight just before tossing something Tim’s way. After catching it one-handed, Tim saw that it was a lighter.

“Hopefully the former,” Jason noted. “Though Tim brings up a good point. Who’d you piss off tonight, Harper?”

Roy stretched his arms high above his head and Tim heard his shoulder pop. “I’m offended,” Roy said as he feigned a pout. “Why do you think that _I_ started it?”

Tim and Jason both looked to Roy, each bearing the same, one-eyebrow-raised expression.

Roy let loose a sputtered laugh, his gaze darting back and forth between them. “Ha-ha,” he chuckled. “Damned if I’ve ever been betrayed twice.”

The candle on the coffee table was cool as Tim dragged it back and into his lap. He tapped his fingers against it, considering the situation. A safehouse Roy knew about and was familiar with, the fact Roy wasn’t _Roy_ right now - he was Arsenal, and by the looks of it - exhausted.

“Does Batman know you’re working a case in his backyard?” Tim asked.

It was Jason that answered. “B doesn’t need to know about our cases.”

Tim decided to be more straightforward. “ _Yours_ , maybe not,” he directed Jason’s way and then shifted his attention to Roy. “But you’re working alone, right? Running for Ollie?”

For the first time, Roy lost his humor; his smile departed and he tossed a questioning glance Jason’s way, as if to ask, _did you tell him?_

“You’re looking at the master of deduction,” Jason replied, dryly, pointing haphazardly to Tim with his thumb. “A very _loyal_ master of deduction who wouldn’t sell out his friends because daddy-bats might be territorial.”

At that, Tim tipped the candle forward in order to light it. He answered with, “What an intriguing bundle of assumptions.”

Roy looked anxious as he shifted his weight.

“Tim.” Jason warned.

After sliding the candle to the table’s center, Tim lifted his gaze. “I’m not going to tell,” he said, edging a look Jason’s direction. “But you might want to hit the streets with him, Jay. B’s on a big project that’s got the whole team posted. I don’t even want to think about Roy running into Robin.”

At that, Jason looked thoughtful. “Duly noted,” he said, and then looked curious. “What makes you think Roy’s doing something for Ollie? The fact I’m not out there with him?”

“There’s that,” Tim agreed, “and also, you don’t know who we’re hiding from. I hate to ruin dreams, but neither of you really spell _mystery_.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah. You sure can read me like a book.”

Tim wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, so he ignored it and stood up, making his way to two more candles. There weren’t anymore in this corner of the room, and so he turned; as he did, he saw Jason pause midstep just before lifting a finger.

On the couch, Roy paused from removing his gear and tipped his head sideways.

Tim wasn't used to the warehouse, what sounds were normal and which ones weren't, but he thought he heard tires on gravel and the low hum of an engine.

Jason’s glance was sideways and urgent, and he snapped his fingers Tim’s direction and motioned towards a light panel. Tim acted easily enough, eyeing the switches briefly before his fingers made work of folding darkness into the living space.

When a candle flickered nearby, Tim felt tempted to blow it out. But then he heard it; the sudden loss of a hefty hum, and knew that it wasn't the _light_ that was a problem.

“This place runs off a generator?” Even after saying it, Tim found it hard to believe.

“A few,” Jason said, quiet. “I told you it was a fixer-upper.”

“What you meant was _if we leech anymore power they’ll send us a bill_.”

“Yeah,” Jason shrugged. “That too.”

It was a toss up whether or not Tim should feel concerned. Quiet stretched for a good few minutes after, but the sounds that Tim had heard seemed to have disappeared.

Eventually, the tension left Jason’s shoulders and he sighed. Roy welcomed the decision by working off his gauntlets and peeling off his mask, barely visible in the flickering light.

“I’m using some of the distilled,” Roy said as he stood up. “Need to wash this day off, stat.”

Tim watched him leave. A moment later, his cell phone buzzed and he dug it out from his back pocket. One look at the caller ID had him sighing, and when he pressed the phone to his ear, he voiced a casual, “Hey, Dick. What’s up?”

At that, Jason’s steps slowed and he eyed Tim as he fell into Roy’s spot on the couch.

“The Triads are in town,” Tim hummed, flickering a knowing look Jason’s way. “No kidding.”

Jason plucked Roy’s bow from the table, but not before sending Tim a passive glance. The Triads were Starling criminals, which proved Tim’s theory correct. Tim simply arched his brows, teasing.

Dick’s next comment left little room for humor, and Tim turned away from Jason, annoyed. He said, “Of course I’m not patrolling.”

There was nothing more frustrating than being benched and then being harped about it.

“Just because I’m not at my apartment doesn’t mean I’m on the streets, Dick,” he said, reaching out to swipe a finger across the dining room table. It came back clean, and Tim wondered how many layers of dust Jason had contended with two nights previous, at his place. Then, Tim stilled.

“What?” he asked, trying to hide the fact he’d been caught off guard. Dick’s voice replayed in his head.

_Tell Jason ‘hi’ for me, and seriously, lay low tonight._

Instead of answering, Dick simply hummed and ended the call. Tim’s body language must have given away his surprise, because Jason was watching him as he lowered his phone and stared at the screen.

“Everyone alive?” Jason asked.

Tim tapped his fingers against the shell of his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. “Dick says _hi_ ,” he answered. After a moment, it almost made sense. He thought about what day it was; Dick had probably been running his territory the night he’d gotten hurt. “He probably saw you at my place the other night.”

Jason didn’t look comforted by that revelation. At the same time, he didn’t seem too concerned, either. He righted Roy’s bow, fingers hooking against a tension wire that had snapped.

“You can tell him to mind his own business the next time you see him.”

Tim snorted, deciding not to argue that Dick _was_ ; keeping weekly tabs on Tim had become a habit. Instead, he looked around the shadowed space, thinking the ebbing candlelight reminded him of when he was a kid, staying up 'til morning reading books under the covers with a flashlight.

That was a long time ago.

“Will you sit down?” Jason said. “You’re making me nervous.”

Tim thought that was funny. It wasn’t like he could leave. “I’m trying to decide what to do.”

“About Dick?”

“About tonight,” Tim said. “I’m bored.”

As Jason unwound the wire and rotated a few of the gears; he nodded as though he wasn’t surprised. “Take breaks where you can, Timmers. Learn to relax.”

“Hmm,” Tim replied, noncommittally. He watched Jason toss the wire aside and eye the bow with skepticism; he assumed this wasn’t the first time Roy’d had this particular problem, and that he and Jason had been attempting to solve it for a while.

Malfunctioning weapons were problematic.

Thinking of his arm, Tim accepted that perfectly functioning ones were just as unpredictable. His bicep throbbed and he looked down to his bandages, knowing it was past time to clean the stitches again, and this time, leave the cut undressed.

“Do you have a kit I can use?”

Jason’s attention darted from the bow to Tim’s arm and he made an effort to stand.

“I can do it,” Tim clarified. “I just wasn’t sure if your first aid was here or out there,” he motioned towards the secured door that separated them from the loading bay.

Jason pointed a finger. “Kitchen,” he said. “Under the sink.”

Tim grabbed a candle on his way, unsurprised to find an entire collection of stacked, plastic boxes. He pulled out the seated topmost and grabbed a bottled water from Jason’s fridge before sitting on the floor. The kit was half-empty when he opened it, but Tim didn’t need much - just some cloth and antibacterial gel.

Unwrapping the gauze around his arm was easy enough until the last layer, which clung to his skin and stitches with enough integrity that he was forced to douse it in water to get it to peel off. Wiping away dried blood took time, especially when Tim had to weave Bruce’s uneven stitches, but he was satisfied when nothing pulled and no fresh blood came weeping from beneath the thread.

Footsteps caused him to look up, but Jason simply stepped around him, tugging open the refrigerator to snag a few water bottles for himself. When he drew back, he paused, and after a moment’s thought he dropped to a crouch.

“You gonna let it air?”

Tim felt Jason’s presence the same way he felt warmth from the candle, a flickering, ebbing sensation that made him think that getting too close might burn. Though Jason eyed Tim’s arm with nothing but medical interest, he was near enough that Tim felt his pulse pick up all the same.

“Yeah,” Tim answered, swallowing immediately after. “It’s gotta breathe sometime.”

Tim thought about the gap between them - what it would mean to close it. He hadn't given it much thought before. But now, less than a foot apart, Tim felt like the world had shifted and he hadn’t quite found his footing.

“What the ever lovin’ fuck is that?”

Roy, in all his glory, broke the spell. Tim jumped so badly that he slammed his elbow into the cabinet behind him and couldn’t keep the hefty hiss from crawling up his throat.

Even Jason glared, though Tim noted that he hadn’t really been surprised - which meant Tim had spaced out all on his own.

Great.

“It’s like you bats _try_ to scar,” Roy still looked appalled as he bent over at the hips, squinting at tim’s damage. He was wearing a t-shirt and loose shorts, and his hair had been doused with water and toweled to a damp fringe. “Look at that. What _is_ that?”

Tim opened his mouth, but Jason cut him to the chase. “That’s B,” he said. “He’s not one for aesthetic.”

Roy made a sound that Tim feared would send him coughing. “My guy,” he said, slapping a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “The man has a _cave_ and makes laps around town wearing a batsuit. If that ain’t aesthetic, I don’t wanna know what is.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Tim sent his gaze upward, “but this won’t be my worst scar. Kind of comes with the territory.”

Roy searched the parts of Tim he could see, skeptical, just before straightening. He huffed and nudged Jason with his bare foot. “Unless a lazarus pit spits you out.”

It was an interesting comment, one Tim didn’t entirely understand until Jason ducked his head and scraped his fingers through his hair. Though their light was limited to a hazy, yellowed hue, Tim’s eyes roamed the skin of Jason’s forearms and the visible slope of his neck.

Without thinking, Tim reached out for Jason’s hand, drawing it forward so that he could turn Jason’s arm over in better light. He couldn’t believe he’d never noticed.

“None?” he asked, because the skin under this thumbs was soft and unmistakably unmarred.

“I mean, none from _before_ ,” Jason said, sounding strangely embarrassed about it. For measure, he added, “You know what kind of trouble I get into at night.”

Roy leaned forward, pressing his knees to Jason’s back in jest. He looked long-limbed and languid. “Does he now?”

The shadows couldn’t hide Jason’s exasperation, but Tim released his arm regardless. He felt the familiar, annoying rush of warmth on his ears and thanked whatever gods might exist for the fact it was probably too dark for anyone else to see.

For further defense, he decided to play along. “All kinds of trouble,” he threw Roy’s direction. “He’s got quite the fetish for cleaning -”

“-up the city,” Jason quickly said, giving Tim a sharp look.

Tim let his eyes do the smirking when he added, “Yeah. He sure knows how to take out the trash.”

“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Roy quirked, knocking his knees into Jason’s back a couple more times, until Jason was finally forced to catch his balance. Then he whirled, swiping out a hand to catch the heel of Roy’s foot, missing his mark by a fraction of a second.

“Gettin’ slow,” Roy winked, and Tim caught _himself_ against the cabinet door when Jason darted up, eager to prove how slow he _was not_. Footsteps beat across the floor and something broke, but Roy’s laughter simply echoed, like a flag signaling the beginning of a chase.

Tim dabbed his stitches with antibiotic gel with practiced dexterity, ignoring the puckered flesh and bruising, satisfied when he only received a dull ache in response. It was quick work and the clean-up was easy, and when he moved to stand, candle in hand, the light caught a tattered, dollar-store calendar pinned to Jason’s refrigerator.

When Tim realized the theme was Wonder Woman, he snorted.

Mostly the days were blank, and if anything was written, it was coordinates and code. One day was circled however - this upcoming Friday, and Tim felt a tug of guilt at the fact he’d forgotten.

That day marked Jason’s exam.

Tim had put a reminder in his phone, but not a countdown. Seeing the event sitting only two days away was off-putting, so much that he poked at the paper with his finger.

Tomorrow, he’d have classes and a lab, and then Friday…

Friday would be it.

The end of late night encounters and mid-class texts, of Jason bugging him here and there for answers to problems, for cheats. Maybe they might cross paths on patrol, but Tim doubted it; they’d gone out of their way to make sure they had time for each other, and without a reason, Tim had the sneaking suspicion that things would inevitably go back to the way they were.

Tim tapped the page again and decided not to think about it.

It was probably the lighting, but the red circle, scribbled three times over, resembled a black hole.

  



	4. Chapter 4

It was half past midnight when Roy slouched backwards against his chair, rolling his head back dramatically. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

It was enough to draw Tim’s attention from the couch, where he sat cradling one of Jason’s laptops. He’d borrowed it an hour or so earlier, intent on reading through all of the end-of-day reports he’d missed from WE.

“Too bad,” Jason replied, flinging the bow’s cracked cam piece at Roy’s unguarded chest. “It’s not going to fix itself.”

Even though Tim’s energy had been focused on stocks and upcoming company projects, he’d occasionally glanced over to the dining room table where Jason and Roy had decided to work. The night’s goal seemed to be re-wiring Roy’s bow, and due to the fact most of the replacement supplies were in the bay, they hadn’t made much progress.

“It ain’t gonna work even when it  _is_  fixed,” Roy said, tilting backwards in his chair. He’d caught the cam as it’d fallen to his lap, and now lifted his head in order to flick it back Jason’s direction. “Tension’s all wrong.”

Tim watched Jason catch the disk with both hands before setting it onto the table with a snap. A moment later, he kicked the leg of Roy’s chair, which sent Roy scrambling to keep his balance while yelling an offended,  _“Oi!”_  Jason’s direction.

Sliding an elbow forward and onto the table, Jason simply sighed before balancing his chin on the upturned palm of his hand. He delivered Roy a questioning smirk and said, “Don’t tell me it’s past your bedtime?”

For a moment, it looked like Roy might stay annoyed, but Jason’s slow smile seemed to give him life. “Why? You got somethin’ more fun to do?”

Tim filled the small gap of silence with loud clacking, his fingers dancing across the keyboard rhythmically. As the report came to life in front of him, he saw Jason’s gaze shoot his way in his peripheral vision. It only lingered for a moment, and that was because Roy made a sudden, sharp sound that evolved into a wistful sigh.

“I’d love to watch  _you_  restring my bow, Jaybird.”

Jason snorted. “As talented as these hands are, I don’t think they’re the solution to your problem.”

Without pausing in his typing, Tim said, “You should probably try a thicker gauge.”

The comment sat for a moment, drawing attention Tim’s way; even so, he continued on with his report. Roy’s tech was strikingly similar to a project he and Lucius had tackled a few years back, and so it was easy to see the gaps in what Roy had put together so far.

“If that wire snaps, my fingers go with it,” Roy finally said.

This time, Tim looked up, his typing slowing but not coming to a stop. “It won’t snap if you use a hard cam,” he commented before raising an eyebrow. “You’re probably using a round because it’s quieter, right?”

When Roy’s head tilted back, his hair fell loose across his cheek. “Can’t use a hard cam ‘cause it ruins the system. The shot ain’t reliable.”

Tim glanced at the bow, though he could only make out the bottom limb from where he was sitting.

“You’re using a hybrid?” he asked.

Roy nodded.

“Use a single. Custom doesn’t always have to mean  _more complicated._  And if the sound is still an issue, switch out the arrester.”

Tim caught Jason staring at him with lidded eyes, wearing an expression he couldn’t quite place. It felt like one he should remember.

“Well, that settles it,” Roy slapped a hand onto the table just before pushing himself up. “You’re hired. It’s all yours.”

As Roy waved a hand across the entirety of the table, which was scattered with parts and pieces, Jason calmly caught his wrist. “Tim isn’t building your bow.”

“Ah,  _Jay,_ ” Roy sighed, gently shaking his way out of Jason’s grip. “I wanna see if his hands are as talented as yours.”

Tim didn’t miss the unimpressed frown that tugged as Jason’s lips and Roy didn’t either, because his grin went wide as he glanced between them.

Roy said, “Maybe when he’s done, you can get him to polish your gun.”

Jason’s mouth opened, but Tim beat him to the chase.

“I have no intention of handling either of your malfunctioning weapons.”

Roy pressed his long fingers to his chest in feigned offense, looking lanky in the dim light.

In contrast, Jason slouched back lazily in his chair and rubbed his nose. “My weapon works just fine, thank you very much.”

“Hahaha!” Roy laughed. “Doesn’t mean Red here can’t help with the maintenance. Rumor has it you  _bats_  don’t get a lot of hands-on with pistols.”

Jason rolled his eyes and reached for his water bottle, which was tangled in cable wire. 

Recognizing a challenge when he heard one, Tim sighed and swept section of hair behind his ear. When he spoke, his tone came languid; easy.

“You’re right,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Most of my  _hands-on_  involves my staff. It may not be much to you, but it’s long and gets more than eight rounds.”

Tim had expected a moment of quiet, one where he could hold Roy’s gaze in a silent dare to continue.

He did not expect Jason to spit up the water he’d been drinking in one, dramatic spray that soaked the entire table and it’s contents, threatening to kill the candle.

Roy didn’t bother looking at Jason; he simply kept his eyes on Tim, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Ohhh,” Roy drawled. “I like this one. Let’s keep him.”

Tim shifted in order to pull his phone from his back pocket. He hummed to himself as he said, “Opening calendar...right. Let this day be remembered as the one where I got the  _last word_  in against a certain Roy Harper.”

As his fingers poked at keys, Roy offered a dramatic bow of respect and tossed a smirk Jason’s way. And Jason - he responded by glaring from between his fingers, which he’d been using to shield his face, which had gone slightly red. He asked, “Weren’t you going to bed?”

Roy grinned like he’d won some unspoken battle, and gave Jason a significant waggle of his eyebrows. “You’re  _right._ ” Stretching his hands high, he took a few lofty steps away from the table and made a show of sitting on the edge of the couch. “Upsy-daisy. I’m sleeping here.”

Tim stared up at him. “What?”

Various pieces of Roy’s bow went clattering to the ground as Jason pushed up from the table, flicking a pointed finger Roy’s direction before tossing his thumb another, a clear and decisive demand for Roy to  _move it_  to the bedroom.

“Aw, but Jaybird,” Roy said. “You’re gonna make an injured kid sleep on the couch?”

At that, Tim felt offended. “Um, not a kid?”

“Roy,” Jason stated. “Get.”

As expected, Roy laughed, not at all intimidated. Tim watched him huff an amused sigh just before meandering down the hallway where he turned into the room Tim suspected housed an actual bed.

“I’m going to grab you some clothes,” Jason said, but Tim didn’t miss the grudging edge to his tone. He opened his mouth to tell Jason he was fine sleeping in what he had on, but the words didn’t make it to his lips.

He had class later, and wasn’t going to have time to run by his apartment. He’d have to make do wearing this outfit again. So, when Jason returned with a bundle, Tim simply set the laptop onto the coffee table, not bothering to close it.

Jason noticed.

“You need to get some rest,” he said.

The comment had the opposite effect. Instead of feeling any of his _own_  exhaustion, Tim simply noticed the tired, darkened circles under Jason’s eyes and once again remembered the red-circled Friday on the calendar. 

“You too,” he said, rising to his feet while holding out his hand for the clothes. He glanced down the hallway, distracted by the sound of Roy whistling. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

At the mention of the exam, Jason’s demeanor shifted; his gaze wandered and he seemed to remember that was  _a thing_. He groaned, looking exhausted, and dragged a hand down his face.

“Ugh. Tomorrow is Friday.”

Tim thought that Jason’s anxiety had more to do with the significance of the diploma rather than his ability to actually get it.

“It’s only 2am. You have plenty of time,” Tim decided to say, just before giving Jason a questioning look. “Bathroom?”

There was only one, and it was a narrow space wedged at the end of the hall, just across from the bedroom. Tim got a modest glance at the space - saw a shape that resembled the foot of a bed and a square piece of furniture he assumed was a dresser.

The view was intercepted by Roy, who was dragging a heavy bag towards the door. When he caught sight of Tim, his lips folded to form a grin and he waggled his eyebrows in invitation.

Tim allowed his expression to fall flat with disinterest.

In the bathroom, one lone candle flickered, it’s wick burned to a hairsbreadth. Tim made quick work of changing, not entirely surprised when Jason’s loose, cotton sweat-shorts fell past his knees and hung loose on his hips. Less shocking was the size of Jason’s shirt; it’s wide neckline dipped low against Tim’s skin, not quite covering the smooth lines of his collar bones. It fell nearly halfway to his thighs, reminding Tim that Jason had a good seven inches on him.

When Tim ventured back to the living room, he watched as Jason returned his gun to its holster on the underside of the coffee table. When it was secure, Jason glanced up, only to look caught off guard.

“Yeah, _I know_ ,” Tim waved him off. “You should really take it easy on the protein bars.”

Jason’s eyes lifted until Tim caught them with his own. He expected a witty comeback. Instead, Tim watched Jason bite at his lower lip, as if whatever he had planned to say, he’d decided against it. Then, he was standing.

“Is there anything else that you need?”

Tim watched Jason’s eyes look everywhere but him. “Just your all clear to leave later,” he said, finally. “I have a class at eight.”

At that, Jason’s attention slid towards the bedroom. “If we haven’t been ambushed by now, I think we’re good.”

Tim agreed, but it felt like the right thing to get permission, seeing as to how it was Jason’s safehouse they were attempting to keep hidden.

Quiet stretched, one that felt strangely empty. Tim opened his mouth twice only to realize he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say. Eventually, Jason drifted towards the table, picking up the bow parts he’d scattered earlier. Not too long after, Tim watched him disappear down the darkened hallway from above the screen of his laptop.

When his thoughts wandered too far, he pulled them back to his work. It was another hour before he finally decided to sleep.

***

By the time Tim’s alarm sounded, he was already awake. Jason had ventured out at some godawful early hour and Tim hadn’t bothered asking why; Roy’s cacophony of snores had woken him up as well.

He and Jason shared the couch, bookended and blearily dozing until Jason decided to do them both a favor and make coffee. It was the pick-me-up Tim needed, and within the half-hour he was dressed and ready to head out. When he confessed he would probably be about fifteen minutes early – a record, really – Jason shoved a protein shake at him and refused to disarm the premise until at least half of it was gone.

The bay looked the same as Tim remembered, and when Jason turned on the overhead lights, Tim blinked at the brightness. He was in the process of tugging on his helmet when Jason asked, “We on for tonight?”

It took Tim a moment to connect the dots, realizing tonight was Jason’s final opportunity to cram. He nodded. “My place?”

Jason tipped his head back to yawn and held his hand up, waving it no. When he could speak again, he managed a “Mine,” smacking his lips just before scratching at his scalp, sending his hair into a disheveled frenzy. “I’ve got a date with Ermanno Endrizzi tonight. Something tells me he’ll be wanting his breadsticks to go.”

Tim snorted as he righted his bike and took a heel to his kickstand. “Just text me. I’ve got two classes and a lab, and I should probably shower at some point.”

Jason looked impressed. “That’s it? By golly, that sounds like a light day.”

Tim said, “Whatever will I do?”

“Have dinner with me, apparently,” Jason replied. He took a moment to look smug about it, and Tim pulled his helmet down and over his face.

With a smirk, Jason raised the bay door and waved him off and Tim raced against time to make it to campus.

***

It was nearly evening when Tim left his lab, in dire need of both caffeine and answers. The former was easy enough to remedy, but the latter meant a quick trip to Wayne Enterprises. Since Tim had his own transportation today, he weaved inner-city rush-hour traffic and parked in an emptied, private lot.

This late, the building had mostly cleared out. Floor managers bustled in the lobby, overseeing registrars and receptionists as security shepherded their departure. His entrance meant undue attention and he wasn’t at all surprised when a manager came jogging after him in order to say, “I’m sorry, but the building is closing.”

The comment brought Tim to a halt; he’d nearly forgotten that he wasn’t dressed for the occasion. Fresh from classes, he was wearing faded denims, a graphic tee, and a jacket distressed more from wear than aesthetic. When he turned in acknowledgement, he threw his head a bit in order to slant his bangs sideways and out of his eyes.

“The internship program hours are nine-to-noon,” the manager went on to say, and Tim couldn’t help but be amused. The man was just like Bruce liked his floor-people: sour-faced and suspicious.

“Timothy Drake-Wayne,” Tim stated, holding out his hand. He’d long-mastered the art of standing his ground, and the look he delivered was enough to at least earn a pause. “I was hoping to catch Bruce before he left. Is he still around?”

When the floor-manager shook his hand, it was calculating. “Mr. Wayne wasn’t in today,” he said, and Tim felt slightly annoyed. Mostly it was because he couldn’t tell if he was being told the truth or being dismissed.

One of the elevators pinged, and since the lobby was nearly empty, the sound was loud enough to fill the space. A receptionist across the room scurried from behind her desk to greet whomever had descended and when Tim turned to see for himself, he bled a sigh of relief.

“Timmy?” Dick questioned, and he looked incredibly dapper in a suit he probably hadn’t worn in well over a year. His hair was artfully slicked back, and when his eyes danced up to the floor-manager, Tim found his hand immediately released.

“Hey,” Tim said, wondering what bet Dick had lost in order to be here, dressed like that. “Did I forget about an event?”

Dick laughed and it was perfectly charming. Since the receptionist had approached to ask if he needed anything else, he did the polite thing and told her she was free to leave for the evening – and while he did so, Tim delivered a smile to the floor manager that could have been interpreted a thousand ways. In the end, it got the manager to step aside, muttering a small apology before stepping aside, leaving Dick and Tim with due privacy. 

“I thought you were sick,” Dick commented when he was close enough to give Tim a knowing look.

“I  _was_ ,” Tim said, rolling his shoulder for show, “and thanks to modern medicine, I’m getting  _better._  I just got out of class. I haven’t been able to get ahold of Bruce all day. Did he decide to go to the course?”

It was a code they’d used for forever,  _the course_  alluding to Justice League meetings, which typically came out of nowhere and meant no contact for days.

“Yeah,” Dick said. “You know how he likes to show off. He asked for me to drop by today since you’d be out. There’s a lot going on, you know?”

Tim nodded, not having to read between the lines. The extent of the cartel issue made more sense now that he knew the Triad was involved, and Tim suspected that Bruce had been reluctant to leave with so much up in the air.

“Walk you to valet?” Tim offered, and Dick looked pleased, giving a genuine smile at the invitation. There were less ears on their way to the curb, and Tim could still feel eyes on him - as if the late-shifters were attempting to memorize his appearance since he looked so different outside of starched material.

Together, they strided to the front door. Dick leaned forward to prop it open, leaving Tim to turn back and wave goodbye to the eyes that followed. When he was sure his words would go unheard, Tim asked, “Do you need me tonight?”

It had been two nights since his injury, which was more than enough time to be considered well enough to get back on the job. He hadn’t forgotten about Jason, but he knew this _Endrizzi_  business would run late. 

“If you could cover first patrol, you’d be saving a life,” Dick admitted with a wistful sigh. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. By the time I realized I was hungry, this place had already sucked out my soul.”

Tim laughed. “Dramatic, much?”

“I dunno how you do it,” Dick replied. “That being said, Bruce won’t be in tomorrow. He wanted me to ask if you could fill in.”

As they rounded the corner to the valet desk and Dick retrieved his receipt from his wallet, Tim took the opportunity to dig his phone from his back pocket to navigate Bruce’s calendar.

Two hedge fund calls, an email reply to a state auditor, a new-hire tour and meet-and-greet. Nothing too taxing, though Tim wasn’t entirely sure what work he had to make up from missing both yesterday and today.

“So,” Dick said when he drifted back, digging hands in his pockets. He made an effort to watch the traffic beyond the lot, but only for a moment – and when his eyes found Tim’s, they were full of questions. “You and Jason, huh?”

Tim frowned. “Me and Jason what?”

Dick considered the question, searching Tim’s face before his lips folded to a smile. He abruptly seemed to decide the lot was more interesting. “Nothing.”

Dick’s car arrived before Tim could even feign curiosity and so he let the comment slide without a chase – immediately regretting it when Dick ruffled his hair, a habit he couldn’t seem to relinquish himself from.

“I’ll take over at 11. Sound good?” Dick asked, perfectly happy to let Tim jostle his hand away and take a cautious step back.

“Don’t be late,” Tim said, because he figured Jason would text by then. Dick straightened and saluted with all the seriousness he could muster, and then he was in his car and off to wherever he was staying while in town.

Tim watched traffic for a moment, debating on what he should eat before heading back to his apartment. In the garage, a white van drifted through, weaving other valet retrievals as if searching for an exit.

Tim watched, frowning.

In his hand, his phone buzzed, causing him to take a quick glance at the screen.

_Might be finishing early,_  a text from Jason read.

In their line of work,  _early_  was relative.

_Please_ , Tim texted.  _Take your time. I won’t be free until 11, and that’s if Dick’s not running late._

_Boo,_  came Jason’s reply.

By the time Tim looked up again, the white van was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the way, Roy became my fave character to write, LOL. I love how he picks on Jason, hahaha. Ahh. Anywho, plot's pickin' up. -waggles eyebrows-
> 
> Also, thank you so incredibly much for all of the amazing and kind comments. Honestly, they are THE BEST and I hold every one close to my heart!! <3 You all are the best!


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